In Good Hands

That's me and my grandma circa December of 1981.  Six months into my story and six decades into hers.  I'm sad to report that her story ended recently (at least the chapters that take place in this mortal plane).  My mom found this photograph as she was taking care of the things that need taking care of after a death in the family.  Something about it really gripped me.  Maybe it was seeing that green and white fence from my grandparents' old house.  That fence having served as the backdrop to many happy memories.  Or maybe it was just seeing baby me safe in my grandma's hands.  Those hands could knit a blanket when I was cold, cook some out-of-this-world soup when I was sick, or patch me up when I got hurt.  But in addition to the mundane, those hands were extraordinarily adept at crafting the written word.  I can recall being awed by the ease with which she could compose a letter or poem or story, her pen dancing across the page with a grace I could never replicate.  And of course I always enjoyed listening to her tell her stories--the fights with her parents about going to school (a radical idea for a girl in that day and age), the experience as a single mother while my grandfather was overseas in the United States laying the groundwork for their American Dream, the long trip by sea to a strange city inhabited by angels.  I even enjoyed all her unsolicited romantic advice, the last such tidbit being a recommendation to write more love letters (no e-mails, though--pen and paper only).  As I grew older and moved far away, I still felt that her hands were always there to provide guidance and support; a sense of reassurance that I carried with me into the world as a talisman.

I thought about all that today as I had the chance for a last goodbye with grandma.  I don't know what happens when our spirit moves on, but I do have a strong feeling that life is cyclical.  Soon my mom will replace my grandma in that picture and my child me.  And after that, I'll replace my mom and my grandchild my child.  With each iteration of the picture, a generation passes its gifts to the next.  Of course I now realize that my grandma gifted many things to me--a passion for writing, an ear for languages, bushy eyebrows.  And as she lay there today I couldn't help but notice her hands.  After a lifetime spent as the means by which her spirit left its mark on the world, they were finally at rest.  Symbols of a life well lived.

--KM

"Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy.  Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell."